


I am the love that dare not speak its name

by starrysummernights



Category: Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Boys In Love, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 21:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19070593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights
Summary: Kissing Matthew while he had him pinned down on the mat, just the two of them alone in the training room, their breaths coming quick from sparring and hearts racing, had been the single best experience of James’s life. And also the worst.





	I am the love that dare not speak its name

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I'm writing in the Shadowhunters fandom now!
> 
> Please be kind, it's my first Shadowhunters fic.

James wonders, not for the first time in his life, if it is possible to die of embarrassment.

He’s never read of it happening to anyone, either in novels or in the newspapers, where the grisliest of deaths are told to the public in lurid, shocking detail. He’s read about people grieving themselves to death, pining away, with a broken heart, or expiring on the spot from receiving a shock so intense it stops their heart. He thinks maybe that’s what will kill him: shock over his own stupidity, over the recklessness of his actions.

But no one has ever died from being _embarrassed_.

Skulking in the darkest, most remote corner of the library, James supposes he will be the first. He will die from this; he is absolutely certain. There is no way he’ll ever he able to live this down as long as he lives- which isn’t likely to be very long anyway.

He will be a medical marvel. Doctors will come from all over to study him and the circumstances of his death.

Which is even worse than the thought of dying, the idea of people _knowing_ exactly why he was so embarrassed that he literally died.

James resolves then and there to live. He cannot let anyone ever know what he’s done.

Dust has collected on the shelves in the portion of the library in which James is hiding. Cobwebs hang overhead and it’s very obvious that no one ever comes here- or cleans here- and so he thinks it’s a safe space to wallow in his misery. What had he been thinking? What incredibly asinine impulse had taken over his good sense and reason and made him-… _made him do what he did?_

James clenches his eyes closed, face compressing in agony. Mortification sweeps over him. He feels sick to his stomach. He’s really done it now. He’s gone and ruined the one good thing which had came from attending the Academy. He’s ruined his friendship with Matthew and their future as _parabatai_. Matthew won’t want him now. James doesn’t blame Matthew for changing his mind. Not after what James did to him that morning.

No one else will want to be James’s _parabatai_ either- no one ever did except Matthew- but even if there were ten people clamoring for the position, James wouldn’t want anyone else. He just wants Matthew.

Why had he been so _stupid_?

James thunks his head against one of the dusty bookshelves. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

His ears perk up when he hears the library door open and close, distant but echoing in the vast space of the library. James stops hitting his head on the shelf and holds his breath. It could be anyone. Maybe it’s Mother or Father, come to choose a new novel, or a servant, come to clean up the place, though judging by the thick layer of dust that’s unlikely. Or it could be-

“James? Are you in here?”

James sucks in a sharp breath and whirls around, looking for an escape route. He encounters only a cobwebbed wall, the wallpaper beneath obscured until the floral print is almost invisible. He stares, willing the wall to improbably open and reveal a secret, hidden passage which he can slip into and avoid the confrontation which is stalking through the rows of bookshelves, coming ever closer.

His heart is about to leap out of his chest and adrenaline is surging through his body. It feels like he’s poised for a fight, like he’s staring down a demon, armed with nothing but his own wits and despairing because he knows that won’t be enough to save himself but he’s no coward so he’s going to goddamn try.

“There you are.” A quiet voice says behind him. “I knew that you’d be in here.”

James doesn’t immediately turn around. He wonders if he pretends not to hear Matthew, the other boy will understand that James regrets what he did, that nothing needs to be said, and leave. Neither of them will ever mention what James did and maybe- just maybe- they can go back to the way they’d been before.

Even as the plan unfurls, James knows it’s a foolish one. Matthew Fairchild does not take to being ignored. Not only will Matthew continue to pester him, but if James ignores him now, Matthew is likely to bring the conversation up in the future at the worst possible time.

Slowly, reluctantly, half-bracing himself for a blow (because that’s what most men would do in Matthew’s situation), James turns to his former best friend and former future _parabatai_.

Matthew is still dressed in their training gear, all black, which not only draws James’s eyes to his broad shoulders but also brings out the gold flecks in his dark green eyes and casts his blonde hair in startling contrast. His weapons belt is hooked around his waist, slung low, exposing the curve of his hipbones and giving him a nonchalant air despite the weapons bristling about his person. He’s beautiful, if one allows a man to be beautiful, with high cheekbones and softly curving lips-

James tears his eyes away to keep from staring. Staring at Matthew is what got him into this situation in the first place. That, and waxing poetical about the particular shade of Matthew’s eyes, and comparing his hair to the sun and the halos of angels, and composing really, really bad prose about the rest of his body. James blushes when he remembers how he’d used animal imagery to describe Matthew. Lions and eagles and peacocks had featured prominently- all for very different, _very_ embarrassing reasons.

“What’re you doing all the way back here?”

James risks a glance at Matthew who smiles at him. He doesn’t know how to answer that.

_“I’m back here because I couldn’t face anyone after kissing you during training and wanted a quiet place to die.”_

The words are stuck in James’s throat. They won’t come out. James frowns, wishing he could come up with something funny like Matthew always does to diffuse the situation and make everyone laugh. 

“Sorry. I guess that was a stupid question. Where else would you be?” Matthew’s smile falters. He crosses his arms and makes to casually lean against one of the shelves before seeing the layering of dust, grimacing, and straightens up again. “I wanted to come and talk to you. I wish you’d chosen a better place though, James. This is…” He gestures vaguely but James knows what he means.

“It seems fine to me.” He mutters, just to have something to say, and Matthew looks heartened. He steps closer, his eyes gleaming brightly in the gloom, and James’s heart starts leaping again. This time, for an entirely different reason.

The thing is, he’s always thought of libraries as very _romantic_ places. Not only are they filled with books, but they’re quiet. No one disturbs you in a library. You have to talk in a whisper, leaning close, close, close to the person you’re with. The air is heavy with a quiescent hush. The books whisper to you, filling the silence with emotions James always struggles to put a name to. Dark corners and hidden nooks are the perfect places for rendezvous, the discreet clasping of a hand or the briefest of kisses to hand or cheek or lips. Not that James has ever experienced such things himself, but James’s earliest memories of love took place in a library: his mother and father reading to him, his father lifting him up to reach the highest shelves, spending hours in silence and safety with them. And later, when he was old enough to choose his own books and started to naturally emulate his mother, choosing the same novels she read, James learned about romantic love. He secreted himself in an alcove and devoured Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters, Ann Radcliff, Dickens, and a host of others, filling his head and heart with ideas of romantic love.

Libraries and love are entwined for James. They’re one and the same. Having Matthew here, in the library, in a darkened corner, surrounded by volumes containing the depth and breadth of human emotions should be the height of romance.

It’s not.

James mourns this missed opportunity, but he squares his shoulders. He has to face the consequences of his actions. His parents didn’t raise a coward.

“Matthew. I’m sorry for earlier- in the training room- I- “

“I can’t be your _parabatai_ anymore.” Matthew says in an unexpected rush, and even though he expected the news, James is still crushed. He’d been surprised, but proud and pleased, when Matthew first told him that he wanted them to become _parabatai_. James had always assumed he’d never have a _parabatai_ and he’d made peace with that. He hadn’t known how badly he wanted a brother-in-arms until Matthew dangled the possibility in front of him. Having that suddenly yanked away feels like getting stabbed.

Worse.

“I understand.” He forces himself to say, the words tasting bitter. He supposes that means they’re no longer friends either. After all, who could be friends with someone who is…who is…what James is? He’s not even sure his parents will fully understand, or accept him.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

Matthew looks relieved and the smile is back on his face. James’s heart twists. Obviously, this is going the way Matthew wanted. Had he expected James to refuse? To make a scene?

“You… _understand_?” Matthew asks again, and James thinks that Matthew needn’t sound so eager about it.

“Yes. I understand we cannot be parabatai anymore.” He says sourly, and Matthew breathes a quick laugh, looking much happier.

“Good. I’m glad you understand, James.” He bites his lip, regarding James in the half-light. “You know…” He hesitates, “that was my first kiss.”

James blushes. He suddenly hates Matthew for telling him that. He’s breaking James’s heart and ending their friendship, and bringing that up at this moment is a cruelty he didn’t expect from Matthew. It shows a want of feeling. It wounds James even more than the knowledge they won’t be _parabatai_ anymore.

“Well, I’m sorry for stealing your first kiss.” James snaps with as much anger as he can muster. “I’m sure if you try enough, you’ll be able to forget about it.”

“I don’t want to forget about it. And I wasn’t complaining. Just so you know, I’m glad my first kiss was with you.”

“Oh. Well.” James doesn’t know what to say. Again. He blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “That was my first kiss too.”

“It was?”

“Yes.” He considers apologizing that he’d done it so poorly. Kissing Matthew while he had him pinned down on the mat, just the two of them alone in the training room, their breaths coming quick from sparring and hearts racing, had been the single best experience of James’s life. And also the worst.

Matthew didn’t want to be his _parabatai_. They weren’t friends anymore.

“Well, for being your first kiss, you didn’t do a half-bad job.” Matthew grins, and James gives him a sharp look.

“Like you have room to give critiques. You said it was your first kiss too!”

Matthew gives a little shrug which could mean everything and nothing all at the same time. “I just meant that maybe we could both practice a bit more. If I may extend an already commonly over-used metaphor, it’s like weapons training: no one gets it right the first time.”

This conversation is making less and less sense to James. “I suppose you’re right…” He begins, but doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence.

Matthew closes the space between them in two steps, seizes the front of James’s shirt, and propels him backward. James instinctively flinches, expecting a punch, and instead finds himself being kissed, pressed up against the dusty bookshelves and kissed by a very enthusiastic Matthew Fairchild who is running his fingers through James’s hair, breathing shakily against his cheek.

Their kiss earlier had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, sloppy, and without much technique. It’s immediately clear to James that Matthew has premeditated this kiss, angling his head just so and covering James’s own lips with a surety he himself hadn’t had earlier. His eyes are closed and he doesn’t remember closing them and he tells himself he’ll push Matthew away and ask one of the thousand questions which are springing to mind with every passing second, but then Matthew does something clever, taking James’s bottom lip between each of his own and sucking gently and James forgets how to think. He realizes that he’s grabbing at Matthew’s shoulders, bunching his clothes in his fists in an effort to get him closer, but he can’t be ashamed- not when Matthew seems very happy to be pulled closer, sealing their bodies together and tipping James harder against the bookshelf. Something digs into his spine and he knows he’ll be covered in dust, but none of that matters. All that matters is getting to keep kissing Matthew-

There’s a soft, shaky little sigh of a moan interspersed between their kisses that James can’t place, but when he realizes that it’s him- that _he’s_ the one making the embarrassing noise- he breaks the kiss. He can’t move away. The bookshelf is hard at his back and Matthew is hard at his front, but he turns his head to the side and does his best to relearn how to breathe.

“James…?” Matthew is out of breath too, and something twists low in James’s stomach hearing it. He does his best to get control of himself.

“What?” He tries to think of something more coherent to say. He can’t. “Wh-what?!” James thinks that sums it up succinctly nevertheless.

“What?” Matthew looks puzzled, staring at James like he’s gone crazy, and James shakes his head, trying to clear it and make sense of everything.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Kiss me!” James relaxes his death grip on Matthew’s clothes and Matthew takes a step back, looking worried.

“Did you not want me to? Should I have asked first? I’m sorry, James. Really. I’ve never done this before and I didn’t think. If you want me to ask before I kiss you every time, I’ll try. I don’t know if I’ll always succeed, though. I feel it will most likely be a constant spur of the moment impulse.” He grins, rakish and unrepentant, and James thinks he’s gone crazy. None of this is making any sense.

“N-no. The kiss. Was fine.” Wonderful. The kiss was wonderful. “But I don’t understand. I thought you were angry with me. You said that we couldn’t be _parabatai_ anymore.”

“Of course we can’t be _parabatai_.” Matthew says, as if this is the most obvious thing. “Are you upset about that? All things considering, I thought you’d be happy.”

“Happy?”

“Well. Yes.”

“Why would that make me happy? I’ve always wanted to be your _parabatai_.”

“I know.” Matthew takes James’s hand and James stares down at their interwoven fingers like it’s the eighth wonder of the world. “I wanted to be yours too. But I think you’ll agree that _this_ ,” He squeezes James’s hand, “changes everything. I can’t be your _parabatai_ if I’m in love with you.”

There’s a ringing in James’s ears and he gapes at Matthew, expecting him at any second to break into laughter and tell James he’s been joking all along. That doesn’t happen.

“What?” James doesn’t recognize his own voice, squeezed down and gasping. “What do you mean you’re in love with me?”

Matthew frowns. “That I’m in love with you. I told you earlier.”

“No, you didn’t!” James knows he wouldn’t have missed something like that.

“Yes, I did. I told you we couldn’t be _parabatai_ and you said you understood.”

James waits for Matthew to elaborate, but when he doesn’t he throws up his hand which isn’t currently clasped by Matthew. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“You said you _understood_.” Matthew repeats, stressing the word like there are multiple worlds contained in the three syllables. “I asked, and you said that you understood.”

“I don’t-“

“It’s like the poem.” Matthew makes an agitated noise and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face, but he doesn’t drop James’s hand either. “A love that dare not speak its name.”

“Oh.” James processes this, and goes back over their conversation in the light of Matthew’s confession. “Oh.”

“That’s all you can say? _Oh_?”

James has read enough novels to know that when one is the recipient of a love confession, one does not act like an ungrateful moron. Especially if the one doing the love confession is the same one whom he’s been pining over the better part of 4 months. He thinks fast, trying to pretend this is happening to someone else, a character from a novel, who had been infatuated with their friend whom they were certain would never love them and they’d finally realized that they did. What would that character say? How would they react?

“I…pl-please accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I- I am very sensible of the honor-“

“Are you quoting Jane Austen at me?”

“What’s wrong with that?” James asks. He thinks that Matthew is being rude for interrupting him during his own confession. He hadn’t interrupted Matthew. “Wait. You read Jane Austen?”

“Of course I’ve read Jane Austen.” Matthew waves aside the question. “That doesn’t excuse you. This is our romantic moment, James. Say something original.”

“You used Lord Alfred Douglas.” James grumbles, but does his best to think of something imaginative, something he can be proud of, something that explains the immense love he feels for Matthew Fairchild, something heartfelt that both he and Matthew can remember years from now.

A few minutes of flustered silence later, Matthew takes pity on him.

“James,” Matthew says in a soft, kind voice, taking James’s other hand and drawing him closer, “just say it.”

“I love you too, Matthew.”

“There. Was that so hard?”

“Shut up and kiss me.” James orders, curt in the face of Matthew’s teasing, and Matthew throws his head back and laughs, then devotes himself entirely to complying with James’s request.


End file.
